


Brief Candle

by chess_ka



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Depression, Gen, Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:21:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_ka/pseuds/chess_ka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin suffers from serious depression, and finally tries to get himself some help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brief Candle

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick warning: this fic deals with symptoms of and treatment of depression in some detail, and has passing references to suicide.

The alarm sounds. Shrill. Piercing. It startles Martin from a deep, dreamless sleep.

It is still dark outside. The steady patter of rain on the attic roof is white noise behind the still-shrieking alarm. The faint glow of a street lamp lends an orange haze to the darkness. Martin can see the stains on the ceiling, the damp around the window. He should tell the landlord about that. He always means to.

The alarm is still ringing. He can barely summon the energy to turn it off. 

The silence that follows is heavy and oppressive. The drumming rain constant. It tightens Martin's nerves.

His limbs feel like dead weights. He knows he should get out of bed. It won't take much – one movement to throw the duvet off, one more to swing his legs over, then he'll stand, and he'll be up. Done.

He lies and stares at the ceiling. His heart aches. His throat feels tight. His brain buzzes numbly, empty of any true thought or feeling. 

He has an early delivery to make. After that he has to drive to the airfield, where they have been on stand-by for two weeks. Empty, meaningless. Would anyone really notice if he didn't show up?

He is so very, very tired.

He lies and stares at the ceiling, and tries to work out what it is he is feeling. It isn't sadness, not really. It's some form of misery, but one much more potent and yet somehow more empty than sadness. He would welcome feeling sad: that bright, sharp sense of something wrong, like nails on a blackboard. This... this is just nothingness. A void that drags at his limbs and his mind and his heart and leaves him gasping and aching from the inside out.

What would they see, he wonders, if they cut him open. He can't imagine they'd see lungs and stomach and intestines and kidneys and all those other things humans are full of. He is too empty for that. He wonders what it would be, instead. Something small, and black, and immeasurably heavy, sitting inside him surrounded by hollowness. 

Maybe he would feel better if they took it out, that little black heavy something. But he would need to be unconscious for that to happen. Have an operation, surgery.

Or he'd have to be dead.

He blinks.

Slowly, he pushes the duvet off of himself. The effort is monumental, and once it is done he lies back on his pillows. His throat twists, as though a piece of infinitely thin wire is drawing tightly around it. The cold air burns. Goosebumps appear. 

He wonders what the damp on the ceiling is. It could be some sort of deadly mould. Maybe the spores will drift and creep, unseen, into his lungs and settle there, growing. They'll choke him from the inside out, make him cough and gasp, drowning in himself. He almost wishes for it. It would be a moment of pure feeling, of struggle, of life. 

He sits up, swings his legs off the bed.

He watches himself distantly as he showers, as he towels his hair, as he dresses. He thinks about eating, but his stomach writhes and the very idea makes him feel sick to his core. It's not as though it matters, anyway. He picks up his flight-bag and his van keys. 

He has made good progress today, he thinks. Eleven hours and he will be able to leave the airfield. He will drive home, and crawl into bed. He'll pull the covers over his head, tuck his knees into his chest, and imagine that this is what it is like to not be lonely. 

Eleven hours. He can do that. He did it yesterday.

He blinks back tears.

****

“Good morning, all.” Douglas is late. Again. 

“Douglas you are _four_ hours late.” Carolyn snaps.

“Oh, I am dreadfully sorry. Did I miss something terribly important?”

Douglas and Carolyn snipe back and forth. Arthur offers tea. Martin isn't sure what he said. He keeps his eyes fixed on the paperwork in front of him. It doesn't need doing. It's all old stuff, he's just putting it in order. He needs something to do, something simple, to get him started. He has been staring at the same flight plan for about ten minutes.

He cannot even remember where Hanoi is. 

“Here you are, Skip!” Arthur's exclamation is over-loud, over-bright. It's as though someone has just flicked on a light switch in a pitch black room. It should be pleasant, but Martin twitches and flinches from it, subconsciously squinting against the sudden luminescence that is Arthur's voice. 

The little hard stone inside him seems to grow heavier.

He stares at the tea, then takes it. His hand is shaking. Cold, perhaps, or lack of food. He doesn't care. “Thanks, Arthur.” His voice comes from a distance. The steam from the tea curls up, a little trail of comfort and warmth. He swallows, holds the mug in both hands. Ducks his head so his curls flop forward, hiding his face. He hears Arthur and Carolyn leave the room.

Something hits him on the shoulder, bounces off. He looks at the floor, sees a screwed up ball of paper. He cannot imagine why it is there. Another one hits him, this time on the head. He looks up. Douglas is already aiming another ball of paper at him, but lowers it when Martin meets his eyes.

“Ah, you are there. What's happened? Still no letter from Hogwarts?”

Martin just stares at Douglas blankly for a moment. Hogwarts? 

_Harry Potter, you idiot._

“Harry Potter lived under the stairs,” he says. “Not the attic.”

“Neatly avoiding my question, I see. What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

It's true. He has no reason for this. Nothing to dwell on, no tragedy has occurred. He's just pathetic. 

Even thinking that word makes his heart constrict. _Pathetic_ , whispers a small voice in his head.

“Clearly it isn't nothing, or you wouldn't be sat there like a man facing the gallows.”

 _That would be better_ , says the voice. _Maybe you should do that._

He looks at the old flight plan again. The words don't seem to make any sense. 

“Martin, tell me.” That isn't Douglas' normal voice. That's Douglas' concerned voice. He doesn't want to tell Douglas. He can't tell Douglas- what would he say? _I find it hard to get up in the morning. Sometimes I look at words and they make no sense. I think there's a black stone inside of me. I hope the mould on my ceiling makes me drown._

“It's nothing. Honestly. Everything's fine. Just fine. Fine.” Eight words. The most he's said all day, all at once. 

He's so tired.

“When will you realise that repeating things makes it obvious you're lying?”

 _Pathetic liar_ , whispers the voice. _Pathetic liar, can't even remember where Hanoi is. Useless, worthless, lonely, miserable, pathetic man._

The portacabin feels too small, Douglas' concern like an approaching tidal wave, threatening to swallow him whole. He stands, too quickly, dots flash in front of his eyes and he sways, but the room is still shrinking and he has to leave and get out. Douglas' concern and Arthur's exuberance and Carolyn's anger are too large, too real compared to him, compared to his emptiness and nothingness. Their realness, their colour and their noise, sits on his shoulders and crushes him. Suffocates him.

It is still raining outside. He stumbles down the steps and strides out blindly. The airfield is quiet. There is no sign of anyone. He has left his hat in the portacabin. Tears drip like clockwork down his face and he barely notices. 

****

Douglas stares out of the stained portacabin window, frowning. The forlorn figure of Martin is no longer in sight.

“You lot drink entirely too much coffee when we're on stand-by,” Carolyn gripes, coming into the main room and sitting herself down. Douglas turns to glance at her. “I've sent Arthur into Fitton to restock us.”

Douglas doesn't really acknowledge this. “Do you think Martin's all right?” he asks instead.

“Martin? I'm sure he's as fine as he ever is.”

“You don't think he seems a bit...”

“Obsessive? Neurotic? Ridiculous?”

Douglas almost smiles, but then he remembers the way Martin's eyes had gone glassy and wet as he stared unseeing at his tea, and the impulse fades. “He doesn't seem himself.”

“Well, we're not flying anywhere, are we? You know that's all the stupid boy cares about.”

Douglas hopes she's right.

****

 _I'm not running away_ , thinks Martin.

 _Perhaps not,_ says the voice. _But you are hiding._

This much is true. He has locked himself securely in Gerti's flight-deck. It is safe, it is familiar, and it is mercifully free of concerned pilots or exuberant stewards.

 _Run, run, run_ whispers the voice. _As fast as you can._

Martin represses the urge to tell the voice to shut up. It's bad enough that it's there – he doesn't need to start talking to himself. He sits in his seat and tucks his knees up to his chin, feeling as though he can breathe for the first time in days. His phone rings, but he ignores it.

He cannot hear the rain in here.

****

“He's filled this flight plan in wrong,” Carolyn remarks, flipping over a sheet. She frowns, then looks up at Douglas. “Savour this moment, Douglas: I think you're right about Martin.”

“What is it, though?” Douglas has seen this in Martin before, though never for as long a period as this. It's a horrible cliché, but it's as though a great dark cloud hangs oppressively over the captain's head, following him everywhere. He has joked that Martin is the Eeyore of MJN, but these silent moments of desolation are something else.

Douglas has seen people break down before: stress, overwork, exhaustion. Martin certainly suffers from all of those things. He never seems to stop, and he certainly isn't healthy. Douglas had walked in on him changing his shirt in a Montreal hotel a few weeks ago, and he is sure ribs should not protrude that much. He cannot bear to think of Martin, ridiculous and pedantic and irritating though he is, being driven to collapse. Underneath all the bluster, he is at heart a decent, kind and hard-working person who barely asks for anything. 

He isn't sure if even he, the Great Douglas Richardson, can fix this.

****

Martin is not sure how long he spends in the flight-deck. He thinks he may even have dozed at one point. It's stupid but this feels like an escape. Here he doesn't have to think or worry or imagine. Its not happiness, or contentment, or anything close, but it is still and quiet, but in a way his attic room is not. 

Eventually, he drags up the courage to leave. He stands with his head against the door of the flight-deck, hand on the latch, for several minutes before he finally unlocks it and exits the plane. 

Douglas sends him worried glances all day, and even Carolyn seems to be looking at him searchingly. Arthur chatters happily about everything and nothing, and they all play Monopoly. Arthur insists once again on Martin having the electric company, and no one says anything when he cannot figure out the dice totals

He drives home in a haze. Tiredness muddles everything; it takes him three tries to get his key in the front door, and the stairs seem to swim before his eyes. He makes it up one set and then sits on the bottom stair to the attic, unable to bring himself to make this last effort.

Before he can haul himself to his feet, there is a pounding on the front door.

****

“Martin, I know you're there, so open up.” Douglas slams his fist against the door. “I used to break into my student house, I can definitely do it to yours. Don't think I won't.”

Douglas is about to raise his fist to knock again – honestly, where are the students? – when the door creaks open. He feels a sudden surge of unexpected relief to see Martin standing there, looking as he always did: skinny, pale, ginger, his jacket hanging off his frame in a way it hadn't a few months ago. He frowns.

“Douglas?”

“Your observation skills _astound_ me, Captain.” 

Douglas walks into the hall without asking, and Martin looks a little panicky for a moment, before he shuts the door and leads the way through the house, mumbling about making tea. Douglas takes over, filling the kettle and locating mugs. It is obvious the students are not here. Martin hovers for a moment, but then collapses into a chair, looking defeated. Douglas plonks a mug of tea in front of him, slopping it over the sides.

“Why haven't you been answering your phone?” he demands.

Martin doesn't meet his gaze. “I didn't realise it was compulsory.”

Douglas watches him quietly for a moment then speaks in a low, firm voice. “What's going on, Martin?”

Martin's eyes flicker back and forth for a moment, as though looking for an escape route. He takes a sip of tea, playing for time, but it looks like an effort. Up close, Douglas sees how red-rimmed his eyes are, how sunk in shadows of exhaustion. His cheekbones could cut glass. He places the mug down, gently and very deliberately, and then he launches into a jumbled explanation. Lonely, useless, tired, empty, broken. His voice breaks a few times but he keeps on going, talking himself into silence. He doesn't meet Douglas' eyes.

“Bloody hell,” Douglas swears softly. He almost reaches across the table, but arrests the movement swiftly. “Why didn't you _say_ it was this bad?”

****

The waiting room at the surgery is half-full. Its occupants are mostly over the age of sixty, or under the age of six (the latter accompanied by harried looking parents). Martin feels utterly out of place, and once again fights the urge to just run from the place. He is convinced that he is being watched, judged by the receptionists and the other patients. Somehow, the idea of getting up and leaving seems even more daunting than the idea of facing the doctor.

He hates this.

His name is called, and he watches his shoes as he walks down the corridor to the doctor's office. The smell is over-poweringly antiseptic, reminding him that this is a place for _sick_ people, not people who are just a bit miserable and can't look after themselves. He takes a deep breath.

Doctor Holland is a pleasant, middle-aged woman who peers kindly at him through her glasses when she asks how she can help. The words stick in his throat, and he stares at her helplessly. It seems utterly pathetic to sit here and tell her that he's _sad_. 

“I think...” he trails off, looks at his feet. He twists his fingers together. “I think I'm depressed,” he says in a low voice.

Doctor Holland does not judge, does not tell him to buck up and get on with it, does not tell him he's silly. She is concerned, she asks him about how he's eating (not much), and sleeping (too much, he's always tired), and then she gives him a short questionnaire to fill out. 

_I feel sad:_  
Rarely  
Sometimes  
Almost all the time  
I am so sad I can hardly bear it.

Seeing it laid out there in black-and-white is awful, and his eyes blur with tears. He blinks, hard, and ticks the last option. He keeps the paper turned so that Doctor Holland cannot see, which he knows is silly but he needs to protect these admissions for now.

He dutifully tells the questionnaire that he cries easily, that he gets no enjoyment out of anything, that he has no appetite, that he sleeps more than usual, that he has no energy. He hesitates over the question on sexual interest, because if he's honest he's not sure how much of that he has anyway. 

Eventually he gets to the last questions. 

_Suicidal thinking_ :  
I have never thought of suicide.  
I have rarely thought of suicide.  
I have thought of suicide in the past.  
Sometimes I think of committing suicide.  
I would commit suicide if I had the chance.

The urge to lie is overwhelming. His hand is trembling but he forces himself to slowly, deliberately, tick the fourth option. It feels like signing a death warrant. 

He stares at the completed questionnaire for a moment, putting off handing it back, but eventually he pushes it across the desk at Doctor Holland, not meeting her gaze. She fixes her glasses more securely on her nose and looks down the questionnaire. Her expression is calm.

“Thank you for doing that,” she says, laying the paper down. “It gives me a much clearer view of what we're dealing with. You are clearly suffering from serious depression, Martin, along with significant anxiety. It's a very good thing you came in, though. It's a difficult step to take, realising what is going on, and now we can look at how to deal with it.”

Martin feels swept up in a wave of competence, and can only nod at her. He takes the prescription for Citalopram blankly, and agrees to all her suggestions about seeking counselling. She looks at his frayed jeans and battered shoes, then tells him she will put him on a NHS waiting list. 

He feels... not relieved, exactly, and certainly not glad, but there is a certain grim satisfaction that comes from being validated. He's not over-reacting, he doesn't just need to get over it. He pockets the prescription and heads for the van.

****

Gerti's flight-deck is not a particularly appealing place at the best of times, but it is a welcome change from MJN's portacabin at Fitton airfield. Martin is forcing himself to act normally on the flight to Brussels, but his smiles are not quite natural, and he finds it hard to stop dwelling inside his own head. He is still too pale, too thin, and still looks tired, but he feels like he's made something of a fresh start.

“Village names that sound like porn stars,” Douglas suggests.

“Go on then.” Martin doesn't look at him, but a slight smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Wookie Hole.”

“Brass Knocker.”

“Cocklick End.”

“Pratt's Bottom.”

“What an unfortunate porn star _he_ is. Crinkley Bottom.”

“Those two should star together. Bottom Flash.”

“We have a bottom-related threesome going on there.” 

Martin chuckles, and it sounds genuine. He doesn't catch it when Douglas lets out a small sigh of relief. 

****

Martin stands in the hotel bathroom and stares at the white tablet in the palm of his hand for a few moments before swallowing it. It looks so innocuous and small, smaller than most painkillers, it seems ludicrous that it could make him feel better. Of course, he's not expecting miracles: the anti-depressants won't fix everything, and they won't start working immediately, but honestly it seems insane that they would work at all.

Still, he's ready to try anything. His thoughts have been creeping towards darker and darker territory for too long now. If the price to pay is remembering to take some medication and not drinking any alcohol, then he's all for it. 

He felt rather better when he was flying: having something to concentrate on really seemed to help, and it gave him a sense of purpose. Now that they have landed in Brussels, however, he is once again feeling listless and blank. He can feel the familiar heavy despair creeping into the back of his mind, and shakes his heard furiously. No, he is going out for dinner with Douglas and Arthur and he is not going to think like this. 

Douglas raises an eyebrow when Martin declines a glass of wine at dinner, and Martin tries to act as normally as possible so that he can avoid any questioning. It is difficult, though. At the beginning of the meal he felt almost normal, but now they are halfway through the main course he is beginning to feel trapped and suffocated. Arthur and Douglas are talking loudly about something – he isn't sure what – and the noisy, chattering bustle of the restaurant is too noisy. His chest tightens with sudden anxiety, and he finds it hard to breathe. He reaches out to take a sip of water, but his hand is trembling. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and silently counts to ten.

“Martin?” Douglas and Arthur are peering at him. He has to have some space for a moment before he has a panic attack in the middle of the restaurant.

“Bathroom,” he mutters, shoving back his chair rather harder than necessary and heading towards the toilet. 

He locks himself in a cubicle and sits on the closed lid of the toilet, forcing himself to take deep breaths. He feels light-headed, overwhelmed, and sinks his head forward onto his knees, hands over his face. Eventually, he begins to feel slightly more under control and sits up, wiping his eyes angrily. 

He cannot imagine ever _not_ feeling like this. He cannot imagine anything being powerful enough to stop these emotions overpowering him the way they do. All he can see is this, forever and ever, until inevitably he cannot take it any more and...

He stops that train of thought right there. He frightens himself horribly when his thoughts go down that track, and he cannot let that happen. It is the one semblance of control he has left. He thinks of the small pack of anti-depressants in his bag upstairs and steels himself. He stands, leaves the stall, splashes his face with water, and heads back to the table.

****

“So it there any particular reason you're joining me in the life of the orange-juice drinker?” Douglas looks significantly at the drink besides Martin's plate. They were in a restaurant in Pisa, waiting for Arthur to appear after yet another viewing of the Leaning Tower (“It might have fallen over by now!”).

“What?” Martin looks up, startled. “Oh. Well, it's better for you, isn't it. And cheaper. You know I can't... afford much, so...” he trails off.

“All right,” says Douglas agreeably. “I just never knew you to turn down a red wine, that's all.” 

Martin shrugs. 

That evening they are in their shared hotel room watching crap Italian soap operas, making up the dialogue. Martin is giggling, and he looks a lot more comfortable and relaxed than Douglas has seen him in a long while. 

“Oh no,” says Douglas as one of the main characters begins kissing his co-star. “You have chocolate on your chin, let me get that.”

“Oh Umberto,” Martin says in a high falsetto. “Your lips are so manly and rugged.” The dark-haired woman slapped the man kissing her. “You are giving me stubble rash!”

Douglas chuckles slightly. 

When the soap ends, Martin slides of the bed and stretches his arms over his head. “Bed, I think.”

“Mm.”

Martin disappears into the bathroom and Douglas hears him turn the tap of the sink. “Douglas, chuck me my washbag, will you?” he calls. Douglas rolls his eyes but leans over to grab the washbag from the table between their narrow beds. He knocks it to the floor accidentally and curses. He gets laboriously to his feet and takes the bag to Martin, before realising a small box of medication has fallen onto the floor. 

Ah, painkillers. He can feel the beginnings of a headache. He doesn't think Martin will mind if he has a couple. The name is unfamiliar, however. Douglas frowns and opens the box, pulling out the information leaflet.

Anti-depressants. 

He stares at the slip of paper for a moment, before suddenly realising that this is probably not something Martin would want him to see. 

Martin is on anti-depressants. Really, Douglas is not surprised, considering Martin's life. He likes to think that he would be all right in the other man's position, but in all honesty he's not sure he would cope. He'll never say it, but part of him is slightly in awe of the fact that Martin just keeps on going, despite everything. The man must have a core of solid titanium.

“Your turn, Douglas. Oh-” Martin has come out of the bathroom, and he is staring at Douglas, at Douglas holding his medication. “That's mine,” he says, his voice trembling but defiant.

“Yes.”

“I'm not ashamed.”

“You don't have to be.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Douglas is very aware that he is in the wrong here, caught snooping through something private. Martin is pale and looks ready to bolt. “It's all right,” says Douglas in what he hopes is a reassuring voice. “I'm sorry for looking, it's none of my business.”

Martin seems to visibly deflate. He slumps onto the edge of the bed facing Douglas, and takes the medication from him, turning it in his long fingers. “I suppose you'd find out sometime.”

“You didn't have to keep it a secret, you know.”

Martin shrugs. “I didn't know what you'd be like. I mean, I bring a lot of my problems on myself, I do know that. I couldn't... I mean, if you were just going to say I needed to cheer up and get on with things, I'd rather you didn't know.”

Douglas considers this. He knows he can go too far with teasing Martin, knows he can seem insensitive, but he'd hoped the captain knew him better than that. “That's like someone telling me I just need to not drink as much,” he says instead.

Martin's head jerks up, and he stares at Douglas for a moment. “I... never thought about it like that,” he admits.

“No. Well, why would you? Alcoholism is an illness, just like depression. There's nothing wrong with getting help for that illness. I presume these are helping?” He gestures at the medication in Martin's hand.

Martin gives him a shaky smile. “They... seem to be. I feel a lot better now. I mean, it's not perfect. I've had some really bad days, but... it's not like it was.”

Douglas nods, meets Martin's eyes for a moment, and then stands up with a gruff sound. “Right. Need to get ready.”

“Yes,” says Martin, nodding. “Early morning. Right. Yes. Douglas?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks.”

****

Martin wakes up and gets out of bed. He doesn't think about the mould on the ceiling, or the darkness outside. He has a shower and dresses, then just has time for a slice and toast and cup of scalding coffee before heading out to the airfield.

He's halfway there before he realises what a breakthrough this is. 

They fly to Cardiff. Martin wins one word game and loses another. Douglas is rude to the baggage handlers, and Martin apologises for him. They have lunch in a grotty airfield café and tell Arthur stories about all the measures the government has taken to hide dragons in the Welsh countryside. They fly home, on time and in-budget, and Carolyn gives them a rare, tight-lipped smile. 

Martin had forgotten what it felt like to have a good day.

**

“How are you?” Douglas asks on a trip to Berlin. It is obviously not just a casual enquiry.

“I'm fine.”

Douglas watches him for a moment. “You're sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. That's good. Rhyming journeys?”

****

Life settles into a routine. Some days are better than others, but Martin finds a balance. He takes to marking the good days off on the calendar, and soon he realises that out of the last three weeks he has had only five days he would think of as bad. His van breaks, and he has to cut back on his already meagre outgoings in order to pay for new brake pads, but he copes. 

Douglas asks after him in that concerned tone every few days. Once it fell on a bad day, and it took a few moments for Martin to work up the courage to admit that he was not all right. Douglas had nodded, then kept Martin entertained with stories of his life as a medical student, not expecting Martin to talk or react at all. Martin was grateful. 

Mostly life continues on and Martin, whilst he is not _happy_ , is more balanced, more able to function. 

****

His hands shake as he picks up yet another letter demanding overdue rent. The bright red words FINAL DEMAND loom threateningly across the envelope, and his chest tightens. His landlord has always been understanding of his financial problems, has always given him chances, but he's three months overdue and there is no way he can pay. He sinks, shaking, onto his bed and stares at the threatening envelope, not daring to open it. 

He has fifty pounds in his bank account. He hasn't eaten anything apart from what he gets on MJN flights. His head swims and he lets the letter drop to the floor, his face in his hands. He has no idea what he's going to do, or where he's going to go. 

Tears burn behind his eyelids, his throat closes up, and he cannot breathe. He chokes in desperate, gasping breaths. 

The next morning, Douglas asks him how he is and he doesn't even think before spilling out his worries. Douglas looks shocked.

 _”Fifty pounds?_ Martin, why didn't you _say_ anything?”

“W-well, it normally picks up. It's not usually this bad, I-I've just not had a job in a while, and it's got a bit- a bit out of hand and-”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Monday.”

Douglas groans. “On the flight?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Well, I'm not having that, you complete idiot. This is what is going to happen, and if you argue so help me I will suffocate you with your ridiculous hat. After this flight, you are going to come to my flat and have a decent meal and a good night's sleep. Then I am going to lend you the money and we aren't even going to discuss how you'll pay me back for a good long while.”

“Douglas-”

“Good, I'm glad that's settled.” Douglas reached for the intercom. “Arthur, if you would be so kind we would like some coffee.”

“Right-o, Douglas!”

“And if there are any biscuits, that would be terrific.”

****

Martin lies in the unfamiliar bed and feels the heavy weight of despair creeping across his mind. He blinks, hard, trying to will it away, but to no avail. He feels utterly useless, having to be looked after by Douglas like this. Douglas, who has his own problems and his own life, who doesn't need Martin to be a burden. 

Tears prickle behind his eyes and he stares helplessly at the ceiling. It seems inevitable to him that he will be in this position again before long, except Douglas won't always be there to save him. He'll lose his flat and he won't be able to work and he won't be able to fly and what is the point? It would be better to make it all stop before it comes to that.

He turns over and buries his face in the pillow, shoulders shaking.

****

Martin is quiet the next morning and only picks at the toast Douglas makes, even though he must be hungry. He looks highly preoccupied, and it takes Douglas three goes to get a response as to whether Martin wants tea or coffee. 

Douglas makes a mental note to drop hints to Carolyn about finally paying Martin. He doubts it will work, but then again, they cannot fly without two pilots and if Martin is this exhausted and hungry it won't be long before he cannot fly either. Even with the medication he's taking, it seems to Douglas that it's only a matter of time before something snaps with Martin. He had seemed to improve slightly, but now...

He sighs, and wishes he could fix this as simply as he fixes everything else.

****

Martin takes the money Douglas has lent him to his landlord, and endures another long-winded rant that consisted of, “You're a good bloke, but” and “This is your last chance” and “There are plenty of people who would pay reliably” and “I'm not a charity, you know”. He nods and mumbles apologies and makes promises he know he will not be able to keep.

At the house he can hear the students in the kitchen laughing. It sets his teeth on edge. He heads up to the attic and rids himself of shoes and jacket before falling into bed. He had not slept well the night before, and his eyes itch with tiredness. He curls up and yanks the duvet right over him, blocking out the world. 

He feels pathetic and ridiculous. He had thought that he was getting better, that he was finally getting a handle on things, but now he seems to have taken several steps back. He had been faced with his first real problem since being on medication and he had summarily failed to deal with it. Instead he had needed Douglas to help him, and then had a panic attack. Ridiculous.

****

He wakes up in the middle of the afternoon, and the weight in his stomach has inexplicably lessened. He forces himself out of bed, pulls on his shoes and coat, and heads out. A walk, he reasons, will do him good.

The fresh air lightens his spirits further. Things could be worse, he thinks to himself. He now owes Douglas money, of course, but owing Douglas money won't result in being homeless. He's had two full meals, and Douglas had insisted on sending him home with plastic tubs of home-cooked food he had been keeping for when he was tired and didn't want to cook from scratch. So, he had a roof over his head still, and food to eat. It isn't something to be happy about, but it is something to be not sad about, and for now he'll take that.

****

Carolyn leaves as soon as they land, off on a mysterious outing that she refuses to talk about, so obviously everyone knows she's gone on a date with Herc. Douglas, as usual, does none of his paperwork and disappears as soon as possible. Martin stays behind to do said paperwork as the darkness begins to fall, and is now in the process of getting his blasted van to start. 

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he mutters angrily. He's been having a fairly good day, and he wants to be able to finish on a good note, rather than being stuck at the airfield with a broken van. The engine stutters and snarls, then dies. 

“Skipper?” 

Martin nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Arthur's voice. The steward is standing at the window, looking politely puzzled. Martin opens the door and clambers out.

“I thought you'd gone.”

“Oh, no! I was hoovering Gerti and tidying up and stuff. Is your van broken?”

“Yeah, possibly. It's too dark to see what's wrong with it, really. It might just need a jump. Except I lent my jump leads to Adam and he's not given them back to me yet.”

“Oh right. Well, I have jump leads!”

“You do?” Martin's heart leaps hopefully, and Arthur beams.

“Yep, they're in the shed.”

“... the shed.”

“Yes.”

“At your house.”

“Yeah- oh. Right, yeah, not much use there.”

“Not really. Thanks, though.”

Arthur bites his lip momentarily, and then brightens again. “I know, Skip! You could come and stay at mine for the night! Then I can give you a lift back tomorrow with the jump leads and we'll fix your van!”

“Er-”

“It'll be really fun! We can get pizza and watch films! It'll be like a sleepover!”

Martin's childhood had never featured a sleepover. But what Arthur is suggesting – company and fun for an evening – is very tempting.

“Are you sure? Won't your mum be furious?”

“Well, she's out, isn't she? Besides, I live there too, and I can have a friend over. We have a spare room, you can stay. She was saying the other day we should feed you up a bit, anyway!”

“Er. She was?” Martin is honestly not sure what to make of this.

“Yeah! So you can pick the pizza, and we can watch some films! I've not seen the new _Toy Story_ yet, we can watch that!”

“O-okay,” Martin agrees, a shaky smile appearing on his face. Arthur beams at him. Martin fetches his flight-bag, and abandons the old van in the darkening airfield.

****

Twenty-eight days since Martin began to take anti-depressants, and he is almost happy. Even watching _Toy Story 3_ (which was far more traumatising than a children's film had any right to be, in his opinion), hadn't knocked him down. Spending time with Arthur, eating pizza and talking, seems to have been just what he needed. Carolyn hadn't even been that awful about him staying over, and had even forced seconds on him at breakfast because, “God knows I could play the xylophone on your ribcage, Oliver Twist.”

He feels almost like he's wanted. 

****

Thirty-one days since Martin began to take anti-depressants, and he is drowning. He is so tired he cannot stand up. He locks the door of the hotel bathroom and climbs into the bath, where he curls up with his knees against his chest. He hears a faint knocking on the door of the hotel room, and desperately prays that whoever it is will go away.

His face is wet with tears, but he doesn't wipe them away.

****

Thirty-two days since Martin began to take anti-depressants, and he feels vaguely ashamed. He had no idea how long he had lain in the bath, feeling hopeless and empty and so very frightened of what his brain was doing to him. Eventually, he had dragged himself out and had lain on top of the bed watching late-night re-runs of _Friends_ , until finally his mind felt numb enough to allow him to sleep.

Now it is morning and he is having breakfast with Douglas and he feels much lighter, more positive, and cannot imagine what had driven him to feel so awful. 

He shuts this away, and helps himself to more bacon.

****

“All right, Martin?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Thirty-seven days.

****

“So, are things all right?”

“Fine, just fine.”

“Good.”

Forty days.

****

“Bad day?”

“You have no idea.”

“Tea?”

Forty-three days.

****

Douglas doesn't think Martin notices how he watches him much more closely since that night in the hotel in Pisa. He notices all the signs about Martin's emotional state; the silly boy doesn't realise what an open book he is. He would make an appalling poker player.

Every time he arrives at the airfield Douglas takes inventory: how pale is Martin? Has he tried to comb his hair? How dark are the circles under his eyes? Does he smile normally and make eye-contact? How much sugar does he put in his tea? 

If it is a good day then Douglas can treat Martin much as he usually does, mocking him and planning to steal most of the cheese tray and winning word games. Martin is by turns embarrassed and angry and giggling, and things are _fine_.

If it is a bad day, Douglas has to be more careful. He takes his cues from Martin, adjusting to him. Sometimes he can see that even holding a conversation is far too much effort to ask of the captain; it is clear that he is barely holding himself together. For these occasions Douglas creates a store of amusing stories and anecdotes to tell; they are generally very funny (if he does say so himself), but they are primarily meant as a distraction. He makes sure Martin eats, ensuring that he has food packed in his flight bag in case Arthur has cooked up anything truly inedible (again), and lets him have most of the brie from the cheese tray. He lets him take the landings and doesn't pass comment on them, no matter how horrendously bumpy. 

Martin has his pride, of course, and he would not take well to Douglas interfering in his life too much. Douglas is still shocked that the other man ever agreed to let Douglas pay his rent. He supposes that the prospect of homelessness had overridden his need for complete independence. Douglas is nothing if not sneaky and resourceful, however; he makes sure to drop heavy hints to any of his friends who need help with moving; he 'accidentally' leaves ten or twenty pound notes lying where Martin will find them; he develops an inability to cook the right amount of food, leaving him with far too much left over which he foists off on Martin at any given opportunity. If Martin suspects him, he says nothing.

Douglas knows that, mighty sky-God though he is, he cannot cure Martin's depression. He knows that no matter what he does, Martin is going to have bad days. He suspects that there will be more times when he will enter a hotel room to find Martin slumped with silent tears coursing down his face, unable to stop them or explain their presence. 

But so long as he is Martin's friend – and he is Martin's friend, no matter how much they bicker – he is going to be there, doing everything he can just to make things that little bit easier.

It's the only thing he can do.


End file.
